


a handful of silver

by gold_rush



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Food Issues, Friendship, Gentleness, Hurt/Comfort, Impostor Syndrome, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Male Friendship, Nerve Damage, Self-Worth Issues, Training, Worried Chocobros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13076592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gold_rush/pseuds/gold_rush
Summary: In the process of saving a little girl's life, Prompto suffers a significant hand trauma. This, in turn, makes him question both his value and his position within the group. [Eventual Prompto/Gladio]





	a handful of silver

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came into my head the other day, so I typed it up! If anyone's interested in seeing where it goes, be sure to let me know!

Prompto had saved her - Minerva - the little girl who had stood there wide eyed as the barrels that towered before her had started to quiver. Stuck in her place like a person caught in wonder as they stared up at the stars for the first time. And there could be no doubt about it. Without him, she'd be dead. Her little body crushed beneath the gargantuan weight that had hit the floor so violently it had sent shockwaves throughout the entire building. 

Even Noctis, who had seemed closer at the time, hadn’t been fast enough, not even as he warped through the air - a hand outstretched, his teeth pressed into a tight and desperate snarl. But somehow, miraculously, Prompto had reached her. Quick enough to push her out the way and push them both across the floor, his body looming over hers protectively. And he didn't regret it, not exactly, he would never regret saving that sweet little girl from a monstrous end. But that didn't make it any easier. 

And it certainly didn't change the fact that that weighty barrel had bounced off the floor and landed straight onto his outstretched hand. The brutal sound of crushed bones echoing violently throughout the busy hall. Every witnesses wincing where they stood, their eyes clenched almost as tightly as their teeth. All of them helpless.

The first scream to leave Prompto’s body had been awful, so awful that Noctis had almost gagged upon hearing it. Moving straight to his best friend’s side, where he fell to his knees and gazed between the offending barrel and Prompto’s pained face - his usually bright features contorted into an expression so horrid that the prince felt a swell of nausea slop uncomfortably inside him. Desperate and confounded, Noctis looked around with wide, anxious eyes and did the only thing he could think of doing at the time - he cried out for help, he  _ begged _ for help.

‘Someone, please, help him! Please.  _ Please _ . Help him. GLADIO?!’ He had cried.

The prince’s shield had come charging into the room then, Ignis right beside him, both of them dazed by the unexpected turn of events. Their anguished faces the last thing Noctis saw clearly before his rapidly forming tears clouded his vision completely. The young man blindly reaching out to hold onto the back of Prompto’s thigh like his life had depended on it.

Gladio heaved the barrel away, throwing it aside with a determined yell, the contents spilling out as it hit the floor for a third time. Without the agonising pressure, Prompto became aware of Ignis, of his presence, of his voice, but it was so emotional that it scared him rather than soothed him. Ignis’s words strung together with tethers of panic and dread rather than their more typical calmness and clarity. And that made Prompto’s heart stutter painfully in his chest. That turned his body rigid, his muscles tight and tense.

Even with the barrel gone, the blonde dared not move, he dare do nothing but stay exactly where he was, his lithe body safeguarding Minerva’s much smaller frame, his mangled hand hot and dumb where it lay, flat and awkward on the floor beside him. He needed to focus. But he felt too light headed, like his head would be capable of floating away from his body at any given moment. So, he tried to listen, he attempted to sort through the commotion that surrounded him. He needed to fixate on something, he needed to  _ think _ . He needed to breathe, even if just for a moment.

It was then that an odd noise, a noise that he'd never heard before, captured his attention. And it took him a long time - far too long -  to work out that it was actually _ him _ making the noise, that that disturbing sound was spilling out past  _ his  _ lips - that long, desperate, agonising keen. It mingled seamlessly amongst the cacophony of shouts and barked orders that ricocheted across the room, too many voices suddenly flooding into his brain, overwhelming him. In fact, the only thing that kept his mind present, the only thing that kept him in that room, was the soft trembling of the little girl beneath him. 

Prompto channeled all of his energies into her, into little Minerva, the sweet child who had smiled at him only hours earlier before handing him a chain of daisies for his wrist. The wrist that - like the hand that it was attached to - seemed to glower in molten agony. 

Prompto tried his hardest to interpret the little girl’s constant shaking, the humming vibration of her small body. His blossoming worry for her greatly outweighing his own pain. But what had been the cause of her unrelenting trembling -  was it fear, was it adrenaline, was it pain? The gunman couldn't concentrate, not enough to figure it out at any rate, not enough to figure  _ anything _ out really. No, all he could hear was his own heart beating and…  _ what was that _ ? 

It was a voice that sounded too quiet, too distant, like it was fading away but then he’d felt it, that hand on the side of his face - that soft, warm hand - and his eyes had flown open. The world coming into a sudden and sharp focus, and he was crying, he was howling, even as he heard Ignis say, ‘It’s okay, we've got her, Prom. You saved her. You did it.  _ You saved her _ .’ 

When Prompto looked up, after blinking away the hot tears from his eyes, he saw the concern on Ignis’ face, he recognised the agony that scuttled just below the surface, a gloved hand moving slowly towards the tiny girl - who still lay protected below the motionless canopy of his body. He could let Ignis take her now. It would be okay. Ignis would take good care of her, of course he would, just like he took good care of everyone. But Prompto still couldn't make his body move, and when he looked up at the soldiers, at the noblemen, at the glaives who watched him in horror, it made his cheeks heat in embarrassment. Ashamed by the fact that all he could do was whine and cry. 

An unexpected hand had touched his shoulder then. And Prompto had lurched forward like he'd been struck anew. That is, until he felt the fingers press close against his ribs and slowly, very slowly, those strong hands tilted him backwards. Gladio's soft, panicked voice repeating, over and over again, in some kind of mantra, ‘I've got you, sunshine. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I've got you.  _ I’ve got you _ .’ 

Focusing on Gladio, Prompto was only vaguely aware that Ignis was lifting up the little girl, handing her over to Clarus - who seemed to rush her out of the room with a small group of soldiers trailing behind him. Then Ignis was back, down on his knees, touching his hurt friend’s  shoulder so gently, promising him that Minerva was fine, that she was just a little shaken, not even allowing Prompto the time to form any contradictory conclusions about her welfare. 

Gladio had slowly lowered the gunman back down then, letting him rest flat on the floor. And suddenly he could feel them all, his closest friends, his only friends in the world. Iggy at his shoulder, Gladio at his back, Noct at his thigh. And it was overwhelming. So he cried. He cried, and he cried, and he cried. Letting Ignis soothe him as he cooed above him and asked, having to repeat himself a few times before he received anything like a proper answer, ‘Did the barrel hit you anywhere else, Prompto?’ 

‘N-no,’ Prompto had stuttered out eventually, his tears subsiding enough for him to sniffle a few times.

‘You're sure? It didn't hit your back, or your neck, or your head? I need you to really think about it, Prom. I know it hurts. I know. Forgive me. But I need to be sure that we can move you safely, it’ll just be a little longer until it stops hurting, I can promise you that,’ Ignis had offered, his voice tight and raw. His eyes wide as they searched Prompto’s face, as they traced across his body.

‘N-no,’ Prompt had hiccuped in confirmation, and Ignis nodded, offering him a kind smile before he gazed over the gunman’s shoulder, dipping his head briefly, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

‘Okay,’ Gladio had said then, in a low long breath, as if steadying himself for what was to come, shushing his hurt friend before he'd even made a sound. ‘I'm really sorry about this, Prom.’ 

Prompto opened his mouth, about to ask  _ why  _ he was sorry, when the shield lifted up his injured hand and twisted his body around, scooping him up in his arms like he didn’t weigh a thing. And if Prompt’s eyes hadn't filled up with tears, he might have seen it, the agony on Gladio’s face; and if Prompto hadn't been shaking so hard, he may have felt it, the profound tremor of Gladio's hand as he pressed it against the gunman’s back. Holding him close to his chest as he raced down the corridor, Ignis and Noctis close behind them. 

As soon as they reached the infirmary, Ignis had started using the curatives on Prompto. And, almost instantly, his pain was gone. But the blonde still couldn't stop crying; it didn't help that he was curled up on Noctis’s lap, his head on the prince’s chest - the dark-haired young man crying his own tears as Prompto pointedly avoided gazing down at his pulverised hand. 

Gladio stood off to the side, desperate to stay out of the way lest he impede Prompto’s treatment. Ignis caught up in healing the black, swollen flesh that had once been Prompto’s agile gun hand. His brow covered in a sheen of perspiration as he crushed a variety of vials over the injury. Slowly, very slowly, Prompto’s hand had started to look like Prompto’s hand.

‘How does it feel?’ Ignis had started carefully, hovering  like a worried hen. ‘Take your time, can you move it, does it feel okay?’

Prompto clenched his eyes shut and pumped his hand. It was wrong. Everything about it had felt so  _ wrong _ . 

For the first time since the accident, Prompto looked down at it. It looked right. It looked perfect. But it was hot, and numb, and somehow clumsy. Without him even moving his fingers, he knew that they would be clumsy too. And they were. His face fell, along with the hearts of his friends - who all seemed to realise at the exact same time that Prompto wasn't healed, not completely. Not properly.  _ Not at all. _

‘Forgive me,’ Ignis had said then, misplaced guilt washing over his already anguished features, ‘There must be… there must be damage to the nerves. Which is to be expected with such… with such a violent trauma. I’m sorry, Prompto.’

‘ _ What _ ?’ Prompto had asked, clearly bewildered. ‘Ignis, w-what does that mean? Is it… is it always going to be like… like _ this _ .’ The disgust that lingered at edges of Prompto’s desperate voice forced Gladio to turn away from the bed - from the gaze of his friends - as he pressed his knuckles into his mouth. He hated this, he hated feeling so helpless. Like he could do  _ nothing _ .

‘We can't fix nerves, not like this. But it'll be okay. It’ll be okay, Prom. Nerves grow back, they reconnect, so I'm sure you'll be fine. It'll just take a little while longer,’ Ignis had answered, running a shaky hand through his hair. Trying to reassure himself as much as he tried to reassure the others.

‘How long?’ Noctis had asked then, through gritted teeth, because he wanted to know  _ exactly _ how badly his best friend was hurt and Gladio had turned around to hear the answer too, all three of them looking at Iggy for answers.

‘A few weeks, or perhaps a few months, failing that, there's surgery. Slowly, over time, you should regain normal sensation. It’s a variable process. So I can’t speak in definitives. But, until then, we're all here for you, every step of the way. You're not alone in this, Prom, you never have been, and you never will be.’

If Ignis was expecting an answer from the blonde, he never got one. Prompto’s mind was reeling with worst case scenarios and, besides, he couldn't take his eyes off Gladio - the shield looking at him with so much unbridled _ worry  _ that the gunman curled himself closer against Noctis, his teeth gritted tightly until he fell asleep. 

One bitter question running through his mind, mocking him, torturing him, over and over again: 

_ If you can’t hold a gun, what use are you to them? _


End file.
